Eastern Approaches (55 page)

Carson and the officers and crew of the
Blackmore
immediately entered into the spirit of the thing as only the Navy can. In order to avoid any risk of enemy interference, the crossing was made at night. At about six in the evening Tito, followed by Tigger, was piped on board in fine style, and at once taken below and plied with gin. His original Marshal’s uniform had fallen into the hands of the Germans during the attack on Drvar and been taken away to grace a museum somewhere in Germany, but a substitute had been found, and he once more looked and, I think, felt the part.

By the time we weighed anchor any initial shyness had completely worn off and I could see that we were in for a convivial evening. We sat down to dinner in the wardroom to find ourselves confronted with a menu magnificently illuminated by one of the crew and written in Serb as well as English. I noticed at once that the wine list was a formidable one: sherry followed the gin, then red wine, then white, then port, then liqueurs. The Marshal drank some of everything, only hesitating momentarily when a large bottle was produced mysteriously draped in a napkin. For an instant he wavered.

‘Cheri-beri?’ he inquired, cryptically.

‘No, Champagne,’ said the Captain proudly.

‘Ah, Champagne!’ said Tito and drained a tumbler of it.

It was not till later that we discovered that by Cheri-beri he meant Cherry Brandy, though when, in due course, that stimulating beverage made its appearance, any distrust which he might have felt for it earlier in the evening had evidently completely vanished.

By this stage of dinner the Marshal, to my surprise, was speaking quite fluent English and rounded off the proceedings by giving a spirited recital of ‘The Owl and the Pussy-Cat’.

After that, we went up on deck.

By now the sky was starting to get lighter, and, outlined against it, we could already see the jagged outline of the Dalmatian mountains. Tito sat in an armchair on deck, contemplatively smoking a cigar. Soon we could make out the dark shape of Vis, rising from the sea, and twenty minutes later Carson, on the bridge, was bringing us skilfully alongside in the little harbour of Komiša.

D
ESPITE
his experience at Drvar, Tito had not lost his liking for caves. On Vis he discovered one three-quarters of the way up Mount Hum, which rose stark and barren at one end of the island, and there installed himself. I, for my part, chose a little house by the water’s edge, which, though strategically less well placed in the event of an enemy attack, was a good deal more commodious and boasted the best bathing in the island. Swimming out a little way, you could see, as you lay floating on your back in the clear blue water, the whole panorama of the Dalmatian coast, stretching hazily away into the distance, with the sunlit island of Korčula, now in German hands, standing out in sharper relief in the foreground. Sometimes Tito would come down from his mountain to visit me and we would swim out together, with Olga, Tigger and the bodyguard cleaving the water in perfect formation behind us.

Vis itself had undergone a startling change since I had last been there. In the place of the peaceful little Dalmatian island, with nothing more warlike to show than the crumbling battlements of Fort St. George, a veritable military, naval and air base had sprung into being in the space of a few months. In the central valley the olive trees had disappeared and the red earth had been flattened out to form a full-sized landing-strip, from which fighters and fighter-bombers were constantly taking off on their way to attack shipping up and down the coast or objectives inland. On one side were drawn up sometimes as many as a dozen four-engined American bombers, Fortresses and Liberators, which had run into trouble while on operations over the mainland, and, unable to get back to their bases in Italy, had limped as far as this and crash-landed on Vis. The narrow roads were crammed with Army trucks and jeeps, stirring up clouds of red dust as they rushed along. Every few hundred yards dumps of stores and ammunition, surrounded by barbed wire and by brightly painted direction
posts, advertised the presence of R.E.M.E., of N.A.A.F.I., of D.A.D.O.S., and of the hundred and one other services and organizations whose very existence we had forgotten in our year away from the Army. From the surviving olive groves the old familiar bugle calls rang out and through the branches we could see the green berets and khaki drill of Tom Churchill’s Commandos as they moved about making ready for some raid on the mainland or on a neighbouring island. Down by the harbour at Komiša was the Naval Headquarters, presided over by Commander Morgan Giles, R.N., who had what was practically an independent command over a considerable force of M.T.B.s and other light naval craft, with which he engaged in piratical activities against enemy shipping up and down the whole length of the Jugoslav coast from Istria to Montenegro.

Though Morgan Giles possessed the high-sounding title of Senior Naval Officer, Vis, or, in its abbreviated form, S.N.O.V.I.S. (his assistants, for reasons which will be obvious, were known as the Seven Dwarfs), the island boasted another even more distinguished sailor (not to mention, for the moment, the Partisan Major-General who commanded Tito’s fleet of schooners). No account of events on Vis would be complete without some mention of him.

Admiral Sir Walter Cowan had, after a long and distinguished career, retired from the Navy in 1931, at the age of sixty. In 1939, on the outbreak of war, he had managed to get himself re-employed, and, not wishing to stay at home, he had himself sent out to the Middle East which, he felt, offered more scope to a man of his tastes. He had always enjoyed fighting on shore, preferably hand to hand, as much or more than fighting at sea, and had won his D.S.O. in the Sudan serving under Lord Kitchener in the ’nineties.

Accordingly, at the age of seventy, he attached himself to an Indian Cavalry Regiment serving in the Western Desert, with the rank of Commander R.N. and in the somewhat ill-defined position of Naval Liaison Officer. In this capacity he took part in a number of Commando raids, startling all concerned by his complete disregard of danger. But in those days things were not going as well as they might in the desert and one day the party he was with had the misfortune to
be completely overrun by a strong force of German tanks. Admiral Cowan was last seen advancing sternly on one of the enemy’s tanks, discharging his pistol at it from point-blank range.

Last seen, that is, until, having escaped from his prison camp, he appeared a year or two later in Italy and immediately attached himself to Tom Churchill’s Commando Brigade. Those of us who had known him in the desert were delighted to see him reappear on Vis, as frail-looking, as dashing and as friendly as ever. There he was to end the war, adding, at the age of seventy-three, by his gallantry on a raid, a bar to the D.S.O. which he had won half a century before.

With the arrival on Vis of Tito and his staff a German attempt to capture the island once again became a probability, and we lived in a state of constant preparedness. In the event no such attempt was made, largely, I think, because of the disrupting effect of the successful harassing operations carried out by the British forces based on Vis, acting in co-operation with the Partisans. These showed great aptitude for small-scale raiding and were able to give valuable support to the Commandos, whom they furnished with much useful local information. They also used their rather ramshackle old schooners to extremely good effect, employing them not only as improvised landing-craft, but actually engaging and sometimes capturing enemy vessels with them.

In these operations a not unimportant part was beginning to be played by Partisan artillerymen. These were the product of an institution known, somewhat grandiloquently, as the Balkan School of Artillery which had been set up on Vis as part of my Mission under the command of Lieut.-Col. Geoffrey Kup, R.A., a regular soldier of great patience and unflagging good humour, whose life-work it became to instruct the Partisans in the use of the American 75-mm. Pack Howitzer. This was a light mountain gun, transportable on mule-back, if there happened to be any mules, and in general ideally suited to the type of warfare in which we were engaged. After a certain amount of preliminary argument — an unavoidable accompaniment of any enterprise of this kind — the Partisans took to the new weapon like ducks to water, operating the relatively complicated sighting and range-finding devices as if they had done nothing else
all their lives. Eventually several whole batteries were trained and, after being successfully tried out on a number of raids, was landed by air, complete with guns and some extremely lively mules, in the heart of Montenegro, a ticklish operation, which, however, was abundantly justified by results.

At about the same time the Royal Air Force carried out in the same area what must have been one of the most remarkable air operations of its kind. I received from my Mission with the Montenegrin Partisans a signal to say that they were hard pressed by the enemy and that their movements were severely hampered by the large numbers of wounded which they had with them. At once the R.A.F. agreed to help. The wounded, numbering close on a thousand, were concentrated near an improvised landing-strip, and one summer’s afternoon some thirty sorties were flown by troop-carrying Dakotas and every one of them evacuated under the nose of the enemy.

This was only one instance of the constant help of all kinds which we were now receiving from the R.A.F. The proposal to set up a special R.A.F. formation in support of the Partisans had now been put into execution with the creation of the Balkan Air Force under Air Vice-Marshal Elliot. H.Q., B.A.F. was responsible for the planning and co-ordination of all supply dropping as well as for all bomber and fighter operations in support of the Partisans. This gave me a single authority with whom I could deal direct and was of incalculable advantage in obtaining quick results.

I was lucky, too, in having Bill Elliot to work with. His quick intelligence and ready imagination were essential qualities in dealing with so volatile and uncertain an element as guerrilla warfare. He, in turn, was responsible to Air Marshal Slessor, another outstanding airman, who, despite the innumerable other calls on his attention, was always ready to interest himself in our affairs and come to our help in time of need.

This represented a marked change from the situation which I had found when I had first approached the problem of helping the Partisans a year earlier. Then, such supplies as were available had been dropped and air support had been given as and when opportunity offered. Now help came in a steady flow in accordance with a carefully worked-out
system of priorities, while tactical and strategical air support was promptly given wherever it was most needed and a signal to B.A.F. could be counted on to produce immediate results.
¹

Help on such a scale played a decisive part in enabling the Partisans to withstand the fierce onslaught with which the Germans had followed up their attack on Drvar. Like the preceding six offensives, this Seventh Offensive, as it came to be called, gradually petered out. Once more, the Partisans had succeeded in denying the enemy a target at which he could strike a decisive blow. Now, after waiting for their adversaries’ assault to spend its force, they themselves were ready to assume the initiative once more. Just as we had helped, by well-timed air support and supply drops, to relieve the pressure when the Partisans were on the defensive, so, now that they had passed to the attack, we prepared once again to back them up.

Meanwhile on other fronts things were moving fast. In Italy, Rome had fallen and the Eighth Army stood before Florence. In the west, the Allies had landed in France and had fared better than anyone had dared hope. In the east, the Russians were advancing rapidly in great bounds, rolling back the Germans towards their own frontiers in the north and in the south pushing down towards the Balkans. By the summer of 1944, the end of the war in Europe at last seemed within reach, or at any rate within sight.

Nor was this without its effect on our relations with the Partisans. The increased speed of our advance northwards up Italy made it more necessary than ever that our operations should be closely co-ordinated with theirs. It seemed possible that, as things went increasingly badly for them, the Germans would decide to withdraw from the Balkans altogether. If so, it was most important that steps should be taken to cut off their retreat. We had also to consider what would happen when the Allies and the Partisans joined hands in northern Italy. Tito had already told me that it was his intention to lay claim to Istria, Trieste,
Venezia Giulia, and part of Carinthia, and the Allies, so far as I knew, had as yet no definite policy with regard to these areas.

Finally there was, once again, the political problem. The probability that Jugoslavia would before long, by one agency or another, be freed from the Germans made it desirable to reach without delay some kind of compromise which would enable us to reconcile our
de jure
obligations with the
de facto
situation which existed inside the country. Tito’s presence on Vis, a couple of hours’ flight from Caserta, the new seat of A.F.H.Q., seemed to offer an excellent opportunity of reaching a direct settlement with him, and I had not been on Vis long when I was instructed to extend to him an invitation to visit Italy as the guest of the Supreme Allied Commander.

Tito accepted and, after much discussion, an agreed programme was drawn up and a date fixed for the visit. The night before, General Wilson sent over his private aeroplane to Vis to fetch us, and in this we made the flight to Naples. Tito was accompanied by his Chief of Staff and various other leading members of his entourage, by Olga, by his medical adviser and by his bodyguard. It seemed hard, in the circumstances, that the dog Tigger should be left behind and, at my suggestion, he was brought too.

It was thus a considerable party that came tumbling out of the plane on to the sun-baked expanse of Capodicchino aerodrome. The cameras clicked and whirred; General Gammell, representing the Supreme Allied Commander, saluted, smiling affably; the guard of honour presented arms; Tigger barked; and Tito, returning the salutes, stepped with admirable composure into General Wilson’s magnificent car, with its blonde Women’s Army Corps driver at the wheel and, preceded by outriders on motor bicycles, was whisked off up the hill to Caserta, where he was to lunch with the Supreme Commander. It was his first public appearance outside his own country.

There were not more than half a dozen of us at luncheon in the little dining-room of General Wilson’s hunting lodge up behind Caserta, and even so there was very little elbow room. But this did not deter Boško and Prlja, Tito’s two bodyguards. Pushing their way past the Italian mess waiter, one took up his position immediately behind the Marshal’s chair, while the other kept General Wilson covered
with his sub-machine gun. Tigger went to ground under the table.

There was a slight atmosphere of constraint. It was unbearably hot. One could feel the sweat trickling down one’s spine. Nobody said anything; everyone, you could tell, was trying to think of a suitable opening gambit.

We were spared the trouble. The strain of passing the vegetables, under the baleful eye of a heavily armed and extremely grim-looking guerrilla warrior, who clearly did not like Italians, was too much for the Italian mess waiter. With an exclamation of despair he let a large dish of French beans drop with a crash on the table, and, at once, pandemonium reigned. The trigger-fingers of the bodyguard twitched menacingly; Tigger, roused from his uneasy slumbers beneath the table, let out a long wolf-like howl and started to snap at everyone’s ankles; the Italians chattered and gesticulated. For a moment the situation showed signs of getting out of control.

It was then that General Wilson started to laugh. Gently, almost silently, at first, and then more and more heartily, until his whole massive frame quaked and rocked. Mirth bubbled in his eyes. I have never known anyone with a more infectious laugh. In a flash Tito was guffawing too and soon the whole table was convulsed with merriment. Even the Italians sniggered nervously in the background, while a grim smile spread over the stern features of the bodyguard. All tension disappeared. From then onwards I could tell that, socially at any rate, the visit was going to be a success. I realized too that his gift for putting all around him at their ease was one of the Supreme Commander’s most valuable assets.